Little did I know I would spend a large portion of my life wearing dead bugs and drifting in and out of small town gas stations, smiling at kids whose eyes bulged at the sight of me. Yes, I may be am an addict, I know. A slave to the open road. An empty piece of tarmac can set me off like a drunk in a liquor aisle. My hands sometimes tremble when I look at maps, and my heart quickens at the sight of bungee cords. It’s a sickness, perhaps, but I don’t want the cure. I savor this wanderlust that runs in my blood, this pulsing and perpetual want for wheels and the hum of the world slipping by.
I not sure where it started. I remember the first time I saw a motorcycle packed for a ride was the TV show " Then Came Bronson." I was mesmerized.
Most of my long distance journeying have been done mostly solo until recently, and I did rather enjoy that. My travel style tended to be a little laid-back and without companions, I only had to stop when I want to. I could stay in the buzz all day, not speak to a soul and rarely feeling lonely. That’s how most of my 4800-mile ride from Missouri to California and back & along Route 66 I rolled. I was riding the road for solstice and was lost in the essence of what that highway means to me as an American. In the same process, I found myself exploring my own long-standing lust for the road.
What did it mean? Was my constant hunger to get on the bike and ride out of town about avoidance? Was I running from reality? Darn right. I really didn't get far with the soul probing though. When I thought about why motorcycling was so important to me it was the little things I kept coming back to…the smell of rain on warm asphalt, or the way the road ahead turns to liquid in the heat. I can pass a deserted farm and daydream for hours about who lived there when it was new. I grin every time a dog in the back of a pickup looks at me and cocks its head, or a little old lady raises her eyebrows…and I absolutely live for the way an ice-cold water feels going down my throat after riding through the heat on a long day. Train whistles, hot showers, pancakes and bacon while your bike sitting outside—it was all good!
Well mostly except those rain storms in Oklahoma and instances where cars almost ran me over. And now that I think about it my butt & legs were aching non-stop, and my lips were peeling like fried chicken by the time I arrived in Arizona. But I'm not looking for perfection out there on the road; I'm looking for adventure! Honestly though, there was something missing from my trip (besides a good butt pad and some lip balm) and from my list of high points, but I didn't realize it until I was halfway home.
On Route 66 I came up with some pretty good reasons why I live to travel by motorcycle. One of the top motives was quality time in the wind wandering alone.
Then I met up with few other riders in Colorado once. They roared into the gas stations behind me. We topped off, and rode away, all within 10 minutes. The sun was rising and it was miles to the closest destination. Just as the horizon turned blue-gray we were off the interstate onto snaking, bumpy and utterly deserted miles of road called America's Loneliest Highway... And the magic began. These are people I’ve ridden with extensively over the last few years, as far as their riding goes, It felt like I knew them intimately. For the next two days we didn’t ride together as much as we danced. That night, we ate in a small Mexican restaurant where we could admire the bikes through the window. We laughed and talked about riding, aliens, Route 66 and Lonely Hwy 50. It didn’t even matter that the food sucked.
And so it goes. There are scores of fantastic things to enjoy about traveling on a motorcycle, but nothing beats sharing the experience. After all, what are addicts without connections?
I am not alone...
Nana
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